


Through A Mirror Brightly

by Ginger Jam (skylite), skylite



Category: Batverse, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-08
Updated: 2014-01-08
Packaged: 2018-01-08 01:02:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1126526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skylite/pseuds/Ginger%20Jam, https://archiveofourown.org/users/skylite/pseuds/skylite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Finally, after years and years of hard work by Commissioner Gordon, the staff of Arkham, and the Batman ... one of Arkham's worst steps back into the light and casts the darkness of his past behind him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Through A Mirror Brightly

**Author's Note:**

> Through a Mirror Brightly is rated PG.
> 
> All characters in this story are © 2000 DC Comics, all rights reserved. They are used without permission, for entertainment purposes only. No profit is being made by Indigo for this story. No infringement upon nor challenge to the rights of the copyright holders is intended; nor should any be inferred. This story may not be reproduced without permission from the author.
> 
> DEDICATION: To KJ - she suggested it, encouraged it, beta’d it, and I would not have even had the idea without her. You’re still my muse even if you’re not really still officially in fanfic all the way totally. *wink*

Through a Mirror Brightly

For once, when he lifts his hands to his face -- they don't hesitate just at the line of his throat. Instead, they continue -- steady - to the line of his jaw, and carefully scrape the straight razor against the shadow of dark brown stubble.

Somewhere inside him, the storm rumbles and the thunder crashes against the membrane-thin walls of sanity he has erected. But he concentrates on the light, and on the sound of gavel hitting walnut. He concentrates on the crisp smell of paper - the tang of ink in his nostrils, and the musty comfort of the library late at night.

The razor moves slowly, with purpose, revealing soft skin beneath. His hands are slow, moving through the motions with an easy grace borne of memory and habit.

The water washes down into the sink soiled only by the shorn beard hairs.

He takes a deep breath, pleased and satisfied that he can still shave so cleanly after all this time. Inside, a mocking voice laughs at him - ridiculing him for his vanity and his foolish pride in his appearance.

He answers it with the knowledge that he held pride in more than his face. Latin phrases dance elusively just beyond the edge of his thoughts - taunting playfully. He closes his eye, and waits, knowing the maelstrom of thoughts will abate if he allows himself to be calm.

The words do not come back at once. He knows he must be patient - there’s so much work to do, to undo what was undone, and redo what he should always have done.

But the razor was a start.

His hand slaps a freshet of aftershave onto his skin; he has to catch his breath at the tingle on his flesh, but it draws a smile to his lips - the first one he can recall that’s genuine, and not tinged with madness or malice.

Slowly, with purpose and determination, he lifts his gaze from the shining white porcelain of the basin … to the silver of the faucets…the chrome of the medicine chest…and finally, to wipe away the steam…

…and look into the mirror.

Harvey Dent met his reflection with an unflinching gaze, despite Two-Face doing his damndest to shake his resolve.

~Too long, too long, too sad, too bad,~ taunted the mad half of his psyche.

Harvey let it yammer, striding with even, measured steps from the bathroom to his bedroom. His bedroom. A real one, with a king sized bed, a window, and a lamp on the nightstand; not some condemned rathole in the dark, lit by flashlights or candles with damp cots and blankets. Not the steel, tile and sterility of Arkham.

His bedroom.

His fingers traced slowly over the thick, plush burgundy terry cloth. The monograms in gold thread: HD were smooth beneath his fingers. Even through the diminished sensitivity of his ruined left hand, he could feel it, and it made him smile.

He laid the robe on his bed, turning to open his armoire. He breathed deeply, allowing himself to luxuriate in the aroma of freshly laundered and starched shirts - unadulterated by the stink that Two-Face’s underlings always carried with them: the reek of cigarettes and booze, blood, urine, bile, and sweat.

The shirt was cool on his skin, the buttons a welcome challenge to his dexterity. His fingers trembled faintly - rebelling, or perhaps pleading for the touch of a half-scarred silver coin. ~Shh,~ he thought to himself, ~The pens. The pages. These things are greater than that. These things balance more than a simple coin toss.~

The slacks were charcoal grey and impeccably creased - Italian wool. He almost laughed aloud that he could remember such things as that. He shifted his weight and watched as the fabric fell just so. The hem fell correctly.

The jacket slid onto his shoulders like the embrace of an old friend. ~Gilda?~

~One step at a time, old man. One step at a time.~

The silk handkerchief folded neatly into the pocket. The gold tie-tack held the matching tie in place; the scales, symbol of Justice he once held so dear … and would, God willing, again.

His hair was still of two shades - shock white on the left, but still a rich, healthy brown on the right. He lifted his hands to carefully smooth it into place.

Dressed and presentable, he turned to his nightstand and reached for his spectacles.

Bifocals, of course.

But the important thing was that the suit was all one color.

Two-Face remained silent in the corner of Harvey’s psyche where he slinked, defeated.

He permitted himself one final glance in the mirror. His face was the face he had worn before his own profession had created the conditions for his own personal tragedy. But that was all . He did that not to deny his past, but so as not to remind those would-be detractors who he knew waited for his first misstep.

Harvey made no other concessions, though. His hair, his hand, and his limp still served to remind him - and anyone who looked upon him - that this man had once been a halved soul. ~I’m whole, now.~

Two-Face begged to differ, but begging was all he could do. The doctors had told Harvey the voice of his past might never diminish beyond the faint whisper it was now. Harvey had already made his peace with that knowledge. The shade of Two-Face in his conscience would keep him honest; he would have to remain vigilant. The man he had been demanded it.

The man he had now become required it.

The man he hoped to be some day insisted upon it.

The woman he hoped to win - deserved it.

He felt his heart speed slightly as he walked toward the door, and caught up his briefcase. ~It will be a long, long road back to the Bar,~ Harvey reminded himself. ~But any journey worth taking begins with one step.~

The doorknob turned with an audible click, and he stepped into the hall. Downstairs, the voices of those gathered in his foyer were a buzz of sound. Two-Face spat vitriol into his thoughts: ~They only want to see you trotted out like a trained seal. Where will they be when you fail?~

The thought gave him pause, and Harvey caught his breath. Then, he straightened. ~They are the media. I courted them before, and I can court them again.~ The sound of his wing tips on the hall floor was heavy, echoing.

~One step.~

He put his right hand on the banister, and began to descend the stairs. The footfalls echoed down, and the crowd below murmured itself into an uneasy, expectant silence.

“Harvey.”

At the bottom of the stairs, wearing a smile that could well have lit the room without benefit of electricity - stood his saviour. His cheerleader. His best friend.

“Bruce.”

“Harvey.”

Bruce extended his right hand, blue eyes full of encouragement and an intensity Harvey thought he’d seen somewhere else before. ~Bruce, always Bruce. Standing beside me. You never gave up hope.~

Harvey lifted his own right hand and took Bruce’s in his own.

Between them both, a firm handshake. Harvey could hear the gasps of the reporters and photographers.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the Fourth Estate - I give you Mr. Harvey Dent.” Bruce stepped aside, but remained at Harvey’s right shoulder - a close, comforting presence.

“You have no idea how pleased I am to be here today.” This voice, husky from years of barking orders, was full of a kindness and warmth Harvey had not realized he’d missed this much. Jim Gordon extended his left hand to Harvey, making a tangible offer to shake the deformed hand. “You have come so far.”

“Only about half as pleased as I am, Commissioner, I assure you,” Harvey replied politely, shaking Gordon’s hand in both of his own.

Then Gordon stepped aside, to Harvey’s left, and Dent felt his heart rise in a joyous swell to his throat.

Held before him was a leatherbound first edition of Wigmore on Evidence . He knew it was Bruce’s generosity that had found the book, like it was Bruce’s political and charismatic savoir faire that had pulled strings with the Gotham Bar.

But it was the woman holding the book that made him stop in his tracks.

Gilda.

Looking frightened and afraid to hope, Gilda.

Wearing a blue dress with gold buttons - like on their first date - Gilda.

With the shine of gold from the third finger on her left hand - Gilda.

~It’s more than I deserve,~ some part of him wanted to sob for joy.

~Then you have a lot of work to do so you do deserve it all someday, he answered himself, reaching to take the book.

He bent to kiss Gilda’s hand; the consummate gentleman. The room exploded in a haze of flashbulbs and applause.

Gilda smiled and Harvey was certain he could detect a faint blush under her foundation. Then, the reporters began shouting their questions, and Bruce hustled him toward the door.

The city was cloaked in grey rain, and Harvey had to raise a black umbrella to protect Gilda, his book, and his suit. But he smiled like a man given a new lease on life. He walked with the purpose of the man who once had been Gotham’s District Attorney.

He slid confidently behind the wheel of his car with the poise of one who knew he could not betray the faith these good people had shown in him.

With a rev of the engine, the Rolls Silver Shadow, on loan from Bruce Wayne, drove Harvey Dent into a future where he might pay society back twice what Two-Face had taken from it.


End file.
